


When a Potter Loves a Smith

by bogged



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-02
Updated: 2004-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-04 12:42:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bogged/pseuds/bogged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is a smug bastard of a winner, boys love with their fists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When a Potter Loves a Smith

When a man loves a woman he can't keep his mind on nothing else. He'll trade the world for the good thing he's found. If she's bad, he can't see it. She can do no wrong. He'd turn his back on his best friend if he put her down.

But when a man loves a man it's all he can do to keep his mind off of that other one. He wouldn't trade the world, exactly, and he can definitely see the bad. He can do wrong, he will do wrong, he should do wrong. Friends come before fucks, always.

This entire process is altogether different with boys. Boys are curious and insightful. They're greedy. They're petty. They're easily jealous and difficult to get the truth out of. They're skewed and they are not to be trusted, especially not with something so private as one's heart.

So says Zacharias Smith.

Harry Potter, to be perfectly honest, couldn't give a fuck. This unintentionally crushes a hole in Zacharias's Master Theory Of Ultimate Explanation Regarding Boys, Particularly One Harry Potter, The End Full Stop I Am Infallible No Questions Please. Zacharias is not pleased.

"Oi, Potter! Pot—Potter!"

Harry looks over his shoulder, gives a small shrug in lieu of a proper apology, and goes back to towel drying his hair. Zacharias, still in his Quidditch uniform (grass stained and ripped thanks to a particularly bad fall), throws his broom to the floor with all the ferocity of a toddler about to shit itself crying.

"My my," Harry smirks, speaking soft and low. One eyebrow is quirked, his hair slightly resembling the Whomping Willow.

They're in the boy's locker room. A match ended thirty minutes previous. Zacharias has yet to shower and has, instead, been throwing things (Harry's kept inventory: twenty-three scathing looks, ten bars of soap, two wrist guards, two shin guards, one Nathanial Summerby—scrawny, sixth year Hufflepuff seeker—and now one slightly damaged broom). Harry has calmly showered, kept watch of Zacharias out of the corner of his eye, and bandaged his left hand. The imprint from the snitch will be burned there for days, weeks even. He's now standing with his back to Zacharias, school trousers on but not zipped up, a towel on his head like a headscarf.

"You weren't supposed to catch it!" Zacharias hisses. "We were supposed to win! For once, Harry. For _once_!"

"Well actually, I never—"

"I don't need your cheek right now."

"Really? You seem rather fond it. Er, both of them, actually," Harry turns around and winks.

"Fuck your cheeks—cheek. Fuck your… cheek," Zacharias trails off, withering.

Harry chuckles, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. When he opens his mouth to give what Zacharias is sure will be a piggish remark, Zacharias takes this as his chance and knocks him a right good one.

-:-

"Phwoar," is all Ron, Seamus, Dean, Neville, Ginny, Parvati, Lavender, and some dribbly first years can say about his bruised face. Hermione looks concerned for about .000000001 seconds and then gives Harry whatever pieces of her mind she hasn't yet bludgeoned him with.

-:-

"Hey—"

 

"I—"

 

"What—"

 

"C'mon—"

 

"You—"

 

"Oh—"

 

"Argh—"

 

Harry feels as though he can't get a word in edgewise. He's tried to talk to Zacharias all week, and every day he gets a colder shoulder. Harry's surprised it hasn't turned black and snapped off due to frostbite.

But he's not really concerned, no. No, of course he isn't. Why would he be concerned? No concern here. They're always like this. Always. It's just a phase. A silly, stupid little phase. Shouldn't sweat the small things, you know. (Harry worries the armpits of his jumper, hopes he doesn't reek.) Really. No feelings. Nothing! Why be madsadconfusedscaredworriedohgodfuckisthisit? It's just a phase.

 

The phase lasts until early December.

Well… shit.

-:-

"I've decided to talk to you now."

Harry gasps, although the sarcastic nature of the sound is muffled by his thick Gryffindor scarf. He curses silently, thinking how stupid he probably just looked. How desperate he probably just looked. Oh god, he's sweating again.

"And I've decided," Zacharias pauses for what he thinks is a riveting dramatic effect. Harry thinks he looks as though, if he leans in close enough, he can probably hear the wind blowing through Zacharias's ears. "that I will take you back."

Harry wants to drop to his knees. He wants to cry and moan and lie prostrate at Zacharias's holy feet. He wants to skip and dance and cartwheel and fly a kite—wait, he wants to be the kite! He wants to sail around the world on a bright red balloon and bathe in silk. He wants to jump in the lake and wrestle the giant squid in a show of macho bravado, dedicated to Zacharias Bloody Fucking Yes Smith. He wants to run backwards through the Slytherin Common Room yelling "Yip yip yip!" He wants to be crazy, reckless and free.

But mostly, he wants to pull on Zacharias's yellow and black scarf. He wants to pull him down on his knees so he's at eyelevel (Harry has just now realized his traitorous knees.) and knock Zacharias a right good one.

**Author's Note:**

> The first paragraph is the lyrics to "When a Man Loves a Woman" by Percy Sledge.


End file.
